


Beneath The Pulchritude

by Himitsu_Uragiri



Series: Resonance of a Glass Prism [3]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art School, Color Blindness, Introspection, M/M, Nude Modeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 01:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12783840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himitsu_Uragiri/pseuds/Himitsu_Uragiri
Summary: Shintarou understands, for the first time, what beauty truly means.Wherein Shintarou semi-forces Takao to be his nude model.





	Beneath The Pulchritude

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY PRECIOUS CINNAMON BUN TAKAO! <3 <3 And thank you to my lovely beta Kim <3
> 
> So here's a continuation of [Monochrome Rainbow](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4106569), it is advisable to read that first to have a better understanding/enjoyment here. This part is loosely based off Yukina and Kisa from Sekaiichi Hatsukoi (less puppy dog Yukina wanting to draw his favorite person in the world and more Mido appreciating Kazu's good looks). Do not expect hanky panky even with nude model!Takao, the rating is G thanks!

Inspiration could take many forms and be held for countless reasons. Like the whimsical tide, it resurrected treasures from beneath the seabed – precious things to be delicately polished. It was an emotional obsession – ravenous and frenetic. The inner turbulence and the complacent outcome that came in a neatly packaged box labelled ‘artistry’ was something Shintarou was well acquainted with, better than anyone else. Each painting was an experiment in design, a raw expression of the sensations that coursed through his veins at the introduction of every new perspective. They were of the dazzling lights, colourfully bold exclamations of beauty. They were of the gentle shadows, shy and reserved but exquisite. They were of everything and in-between, both the mundane and the unique, the living and the inanimate.

“Paint something you believe is beautiful.” A person whose face he could no longer recall once told him a long time ago.

“That is … the pretty things I see?”

“You’ll know it, without having to use your eyes.”

“If I can’t see it how will I know it’s beautiful?”

That person only smiled mysteriously.

Without truly comprehending those words, Shintarou painted what he saw. He painted landscapes, of the teal pond that homed a smattering of lily pads and the thoughtful, incomplete reflection of the gibbous moon. He painted singular subjects, like the lonely daisy forgotten in the Prussian shadows, still glistening with morning dew. He had painted immobile objects, of Buddhist statues in the shrine, their faces frozen in a tireless, eternal expression of solemnity. He painted people from all walks of life that gathered and ebbed, crowds always on the move in their fast-paced society. Shintarou once painted a compulsory portrait in art class, though it was an unoriginal disgrace he discarded of hastily. 

Inspiration though, unlike beauty, was intangible. It was the subtle ambience that could neither be seen nor heard, but felt. It was the inconsequential things invisible to the flock of constantly migrating birds humans had come to be. The more desperately Shintarou tried to grasp it, the more it slipped through his fingers, like transparent water that could not be contained. The absence of his artistic genius grew robust and encouraged an ill moss of despair to thrive in his hallow mind. As Shintarou found himself a victim to the murky waters of his own misery, inspiration came in the least likely of forms, washing over him with the destructive force of a rampaging whirlpool. The calamity though, served as a catalyst that cleansed the tainted pool of which he was drowning in, just as the warm spring rains fructified the earth. Takao Kazunari appeared, not as another lickspittle in the sea of insipid malady, but as a raging storm that lead to a fresh aftermath.

Since Takao’s arrival, the train of his life had jumped the rails and headed off across the vast shamrock fields and gently-sloping hills. Free from boundaries, innumerable possibilities greeted Shintarou every day. Everything whispered to him. Everything spoke to him. Everything kept a secret from him. Everything was a mystery to him. Everything of which he saw, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt became a wonderful fact to reflect upon.

It would be mortifying to remain blind to the world when Takao, who, unable to see colours, saw such delightful things every day.

Shortly after their first encounter, Shintarou did a portrait of the ebony haired boy, a person unlike any other he had met before, in the lovely pastel colours he had introduced Shintarou to. The portrait became his most prized and famed work of art to date. A mystery it was though, how such an unexpected meeting could leave such a deep impression on him.

Naturally, he had worked on several portraits of human models before, be it due to an obligation, a favour or simply a passing fancy of his own. Regardless of the situation, the final results were always of the same disappointing nature. Although the models were all beautiful beyond comparison and the paintings captured every refined detail, they were worth little more than superficial images, completely meaningless and void of its flourishing essence. The root of his problem perhaps, stemmed from Shintarou’s personal disinterest and overall detachment from humans in general – a race of which he could never see in a positive light. Art was more honest than multi-faceted people, he firmly believed.

Thus, the very appeal of nude art eluded him. It seemed an almost vulgar and unsightly display that nobody thought of much out of the common way, to his mute surprise. Much to Shintarou’s misfortune, he was required to begrudgingly sit through the subject of nude art during the course of his studies. It was a part of the mandatory curriculum in art school decided upon by deceased skeletons of the past era, when nude art became a popular culture during the Middle Ages and Renaissance – a piece of history Shintarou could only wish he could erase despite his respect for the reformations.

Unable to emotionally invest in the main topic of their study in class, he found his classmate’s enthusiasm immature and a nuisance to the point of exasperation.

“Hey, hey, do you think we’ll get a hot lady model?” A boy, whose only defining feature was his unusually thick eyebrows spoke aloud.

“No way, don’t you think an innocent high schooler has more appeal?” His friend quipped.

“Or better yet, a high schooler with big boobs!” A third exclaimed with zeal, eyes ignited with a passionate fire.

The males in the class gathered at a single spot and delved into their closets, procuring what Shintarou considered, the most unsightly of articles. Their voices reached higher octaves, levels of which were the envy of every choir group, as their fantasies grew to the point where even the girls could hear every word spoken. Some of the girls displayed open disgust on their expressions while the rest adopted a more amiable bemusement by the development. Good naturedly, those girls joined the conversation with their own ideals.

“What if it’s a super-hot ikemen?”

“Oh! I want a dreamy princely type!”

“You chicks are delusional.”

“As if your paedophilic interests are any better,” the first mocked.

“You just don’t get the appeal of an innocent blushing maiden!”

Like a game of volleyball, heated words were exchanged between the two opposing sides, the ball getting spiked back and forth over the net with increasing frequency and velocity. Shintarou choose to distance himself from the childish group of adolescents and channelled his focus on preparing for the class ahead. The friendly banter between his classmates rode into unchartered territories that only made Shintarou question his misfortune of being placed in the same room. Determined to ignore them, he set about his usual procedures before painting; checking the condition of his utensils first before unwinding the taping on his fingers, flexing the joints and perusing the shape of his nails.

“Alright class is starting, take your seats.” A tall man entered with a command, taking his place at the front of the class.

The youths scattered like autumn leaves by a current of air before the sentence came to an end, mindful of their strict professor.

As for the eventual conclusion of the day, their professor had invited a middle aged man as the model, a decision that earned the collective sigh and disappointment – with the exception of Shintarou alone – of his class.

Even after being accepted into a prestigious university of arts, Shintarou’s interest towards the much acclaimed subject of nude art was at a negative numeric value. He found it overrated and a bore. There was nothing beautiful about the visible human anatomy, and the secrets hidden under the flesh were even more repulsive, he once believed. As of late however, Shintarou began entertaining a rather astonishing train of thought. The subject which had so rudely invaded his mind was none other than the youth who had barged in, uninvited, to his life, lacking a sense of personal space, and said things so irresponsible that it greatly moved Shintarou in the most wonderful of ways. A person who lacked what others took for granted, saw the world as more beautiful than anyone else.

Takao had, in his childlike, carefree manner, lead him by the hand away from his closed box to bask under the sunlight. There in that breath-taking moment, anoesis descended. The noisy mental tape loop of inferior resentments, inane rumination, and nonce phrases became muffled and faded away to the greeny-beige noise of the calming outdoors. Owing to Takao’s almost prelapsarian innocence in perspective, Shintarou was able to discover his passions anew. Thus the weight that had brooded on his wits and blunted them transformed into a myriad of vibrant butterflies attached to strings, a psychedelic cloud that lifted him off his feet and showed him a new world. Shintarou’s exhibition produced outstanding results and garnered a shower of praises from his old professor. Yet, what little he thought of their words, even from the most highly esteemed of critics. There was only one person Shintarou sought whose opinion truly mattered to his heart.

A simple, “It’s amazing,” could make his chest swell with pride.

He had yet to thank Takao for guiding him into that luminous world. He had taught Shintarou to be a little less hurried in life, then, he’d be a little less worried of everything. He taught Shintarou to be a little more observant of his surroundings, and from there he could become a little more exuberant over the small things.

However, this and that were of completely different matters. Shintarou’s gratitude, although as wide as a river in spate, did not explain his current desires. Takao Kazunari was far from a winsome creature or a mature beauty, nor was his appearance exceptional in any way. He possessed boyish features which he used to his advantage to charm people with, especially his lecturers. He did not have the refined elegance or the figure of a ballet dancer. On the contrary, the shorter male was usually clad in oversized hoodies and slacks that gave him an overall sloppy presentation. Moreover, Takao, as an artist, often sported dirty hands and nails. The only defining feature Shintarou could point out was the boy’s eyes; they were a vivid metallic colour, a hue he knew fondly as cerulean frost with the hexadecimal value of #6D9BC3, unnatural and odd, but they sparkled with a radiance that was the envy of every star in the galaxy. Takao’s eyes were as beautiful as the falling snow, but as tender and warm as the dying embers of a fire. That alone however, was not enough to slap the term ‘beautiful’ onto Takao’s forehead.

Yet, Shintarou’s eyes were often drawn towards the black haired male, beckoned by an invisible force stronger than gravity, towards his slim wrists or his slender nape, intrigued by the sharp lines of his collar bones. It lead him to wonder what lay hidden beneath the layers of clothing Takao wore. It was a nagging curiosity that grew like a virus within Shintarou, infecting his sanity and better judgement, breaking down his original inhibitions. The deadly microorganism penetrated through all his defences, made him question himself, and caused widespread disorder to his mental state. All of which culminated into one rather embarrassing afternoon.

It was a request he could never imagine himself making. However, it was also a decision Shintarou would not come to regret or wish to change.

“Takao, will become the model for my next piece?”

The raven haired youth’s eyes were trained on his sketchpad, fully engrossed in his work. Takao never looked up as he gave Shintarou a rather noncommittal reply.

“Hmm … sure. I guess.” He answered before taking a sip from his carton of strawberry milk.

“I intend to make a nude painting of you.”

Shintarou counted up to four before Takao sputtered, dropping his sketchbook as he choked on his drink. The shorter male wheezed and emitted several dry hacks, droplets of strawberry milk dripped form the corner of his mouth, and ran down to his chin. Takao scrubbed it away with the sleeve of his sweater, smudging black oil paint onto his face in the process. The action caused Shintarou to frown in disgust, wondering once more which part of the ebony haired boy he found appealing. What had captivated his attention so voraciously? He could only say for certain it wasn’t his unsanitary habits and uncouth behaviour.

A minute came to pass before Takao finally recovered from his bout of coughing. With a hand still clutched to his chest, Takao glanced at his direction in a timid manner. His face painted with an expression Shintarou had never seen on him before. His wide eyes held bewilderment, like a deer caught in headlights. However, the shorter male hastily averted his silver gaze when their eyes met in a demeanour Shintarou could only describe as shy. A deep blush, the lustre of vermillion, raced across his normally pale cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. The rosy petals of his lips remained slightly parted, caught by indecision, providing him with a teasing view of his pearly white teeth and a peek of his rouge tongue. It was a look that so decomposed him, Shintarou stopped, pondered, and began anew.

“Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“Wha-“

“Come over to my apartment, I’ll mail you the address and time.”

“Wait ju-“

“Don’t be late, I do not take kindly to tardiness.”

Before Shintarou could give himself the benefit of doubt, he ended their conversation with a command and turned away, conspicuous of his own embarrassment and of the growing warmth on cheeks.

 

Since moving in to live on his own, no one else had stepped foot into his studio apartment. Shintarou was not close to anyone in particular and his family lived far away with their own busy schedules to attend to – which lead him to his current predicament. He scanned the room and found it perhaps, unfit for the eyes and comfort of another. Admittedly he had not partaken much in the activity of cleaning. Having lived with his family thus far – his wealthy parents hired cleaners to come by several times a week – Shintarou was unaccustomed to doing all the house work on his own. Simple things, such as the separation rules of garbage and the correct way to dispose of them, or cooking, or when to air out the futon, were skills he had difficulty acquiring.

Moreover, though most of his work was done in the university, there were times when he was struck by the muse during ungodly hours of the night. Therefore, Shintarou kept some supplies and reserved a corner of the room for such occasions. It was simply a miscalculated mistake that the corner took up almost half of the room. Old newspapers were strewn across the floor to avoid staining the flooring. A tall shelf housed a mess of used paints, stained palettes, and worn brushes. Both pristine white and used canvasses were stacked up high next to the shelf. Nothing was represented in a flourishing condition.

Frankly speaking, Shintarou had not once considered the state of his room before inviting Takao over. Perhaps he should have, or at least postponed it to another date to give himself sufficient time to clean his room. Nonetheless, Shintarou had for all intents and purposes, demanded for Takao to come without giving room for the youth to voice his protest. A change of plans at the last moment due to his own oversight would be rude and unthinkable. Besides, he admitted to the possibility of losing his nerves if he had the time to think over his actions.

Shintarou had yet to decipher his compulsive desire to paint Takao. Instinct, told him he would find his answer in the portrait. Tidying up his room to the best of his abilities, Shintarou anxiously awaited the arrival of the raven haired male when it occurred to him; he did not know where Takao stayed. His apartment was located several blocks away from the university but there was a possibility that the other male lived further away, it was not uncommon for students to commute to school by train. It reminded him how little he knew of Takao. His thoughts meandered, like a restless wind inside a letter box, they tumbled blindly.

In the midst of his troubled musings, the doorbell rang, startling Shintarou so much he nearly jumped out of his skin. Heart racing in his ears, he opened the door with sweaty palms.

“Hey-a!” Takao greeted with his usual cheerful vigour.

“M-morning. You’re early.”

“Well that’s because Shin-chan gave an order!” He mocked playfully and to beguile the time.

“That … wasn’t my intention.”

“Haha! Just kidding, I didn’t have any plans for today anyways.”

The boy was bundled up in warm clothing, looking snug and cosy behind his scarf. His cheeks glowed a soft lavender blush. Already, it was the end of autumn and although winter had yet to fall, the days had grown cold. Shintarou hoped he had not forced the shorter male to trek far in the morning chill.

“Come in.”

“Sorry for the intrusion.”  

Takao bounded into his room with all the grace of a hyperactive kitten and stared with rapt interest at the corner where his works in progress were kept.

“Woah! Your room is so cool! Just like a true artist from a romance novel!” Takao exclaimed with a certain sparkle to his eyes.

“I don’t know what sort of archaic fantasy you have in that brain of yours but this is normal.”

Takao laughed, a tender sound in the shade of tangerine that warmed the room.

“Yes yes, Mr. Skeleton at the feast.”

Shintarou sighed, exasperated by the boy’s usual antics.

“But your room sure is a lot tidier than mine … well, that’s to be expected from you …”

They fell into an awkward silence, looking at anything and anywhere else except at each other.

“You …” He began but found himself at a sudden loss of words, his tongue a numb, useless appendage.

“Right, I guess you wanna get started right away? So uh … where should I pose?” Takao bit the corner of his lip and avoided his gaze.

It finally dawned on him, the glaring fact that Takao was likely as nervous as him, if not more so. His quip earlier was to avoid causing a tense atmosphere. Looking closely, Shintarou could perceive slight traces of dark circles under his eyes. Not trusting his voice, Shintarou simply gestured to the bed located next to the window, thankful he had washed the sheets recently. Shintarou pointedly looked away as the boy began to unbutton his coat, hoping to grasp any sense of decency he had left in such a situation. It was a far cry from his brazen and forceful approach just the day before.

The sound of a belt buckle clattered and shortly after, the soft rustle made by the male as he slipped onto the sheets caressed his ears. There was something almost indecent about it and Shintarou could neither control the racing of his heart nor the warmth that bloomed on his face.

“You can use the blanket to uh … on your lap. That is …” He stuttered through his sentence, unable to get his message across clearly.

“Okay …” A soft reply whispered back.

“Just get comfortable. You don’t have to do anything in particular,” Shintarou instructed, hoping to redeem himself from his previous blunder.

The sheets rustled, and he caught an almost inaudible sigh. Abruptly anxious again, Shintarou wondered if he had asked for too much.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

With Takao’s approval, he turned around to face the boy who was now positioned gracefully upon his bed. What he saw captured his breath and stored it in a jar. Any morsel of doubt and anxiety left him in a flurry. What he often wondered about but could never imagine was laid bare to him. He took his seat by the easel as a feverish determination coursed through his blood. Shintarou took up his palette with great apparent calmness and repose of spirit, and became absorbed in his work. All traces of hesitation, awkwardness, and embarrassment vanished as he began with confidence.

The winter sunlight that passed through the glass panels were slow and weak, providing the perfect ratio of illumination. Takao was settled comfortably on his bed, body leaned to the side where he had placed his elbow on the bed post. A thin sheet was folded over his crotch, slightly tangled between his thighs, the mellow wisteria of the linen a splendid match with his pale skin. Takao’s head rested on the cup of his palm, with his head angled to the side, his slightly long bangs curtained over his metallic eyes. Arguably, the young man was certainly not stunning like a designer made model with a perfectly sculpted body, nor did he have the refined features of a noble – nonetheless, to Shintarou, at that moment, he was the most beautiful person in the world.

Takao’s flesh was wrapped in soft looking alabaster skin, Goosebumps rose along his arms from the cold but his skin shone with a healthy glow in the weak afternoon light. On his chest were two points of flushed pink, reminiscent of the petals from a cherry blossom. The accumulated excess fat hugged his belly gently – the worry of every artist who spent long sedentary hours without daily exercise. Right above Takao’s left hip, three symmetrical moles tattooed his white skin, arranged like a curious constellation in the bright sky. The slight scars that mapped his body spun their own stories; a light scab on his knee from falling off a bicycle, or the faded long scar on his arm after being subjected to the vicious claws of a cat. Every imperfection that marred Takao’s body made him unique, like a brand of his own.

Nothing on Earth could truly be called perfect, for the same reasons why pencils had erasers. Humans were made of flaws, stitched together with good intentions. It wasn’t a shortcoming to be ashamed of, but a trait that bred individuality. Takao was not perfect, the soft lines of his body and the typical black hair of most Japanese men made him average. But when spun together with the story of his experiences and his bright eyes that were like a vase filled with stars from the galaxy, he became one of a kind. A breath-taking beauty found nowhere else. Even as Shintarou worked, Takao’s sight was stolen by the view of the turquoise sky, a scenery that caused a gentle expression to bloom sweetly on his face, the type of mien with the power to calm a turbulent sea and to sooth wailing infants.

Inspiration could not be seen by the naked eye, it was something that defied explanation. But beauty was just as intangible. If Shintarou were to try to define it, it would be the wonderful, spectacular secret that lurked beneath the beauty of Takao Kazunari, the mysterious thing that made his heart palpitate out of synch and the butterflies in his stomach to soar.

Hours later, Shintarou finally set his brush and palette down.

“I’m done.” He announced as he stretched his legs and rolled his shoulders to ease the tense muscles.

Takao’s rigid posture relaxed, shoulders slumped. He shivered slightly while he arranged the sheets on his lap to cover himself better with. Under the thin blanket, his body trembled minutely. Shintarou stood up to grab the thermos and blanket on the table he had prepared earlier before walking over to the bed.

“I apologize for making such a selfish request.” He offered the hot drink which Takao accepted gratefully. Shintarou then wrapped the blanket around the male’s thin shoulders.

“Oh no worries, I’m … sorry too. I’m not a very good model am I? I couldn’t keep still.”

“It’s fine. You were … perfect. I couldn’t have asked for more,” he answered honestly.

“I … see …” Takao stared at his hands, twisted around the sheets.

Shintarou had seated himself beside the boy, and even with the layers of clothing that separated them, he could still feel the heat permeated from Takao’s pale skin. Silence descended like a cosy cloud but Shintarou urged himself to speak what had been on his mind for a long while.

“Thank you.”

“Ah? Oh! It’s no big deal, all I did was sit still.” The male waved his hand dismissively with an awkward smile.

“Not just today … I want to thank you for everything. If I hadn’t met you that day, I might still be lost now. If I wanted to see something, all I had to do was to just stop and look around to see it. You taught me that.”

As the words poured out, Shintarou watched the ebony haired male. Takao’s face was always strikingly expressive, honest with a radiance comparable to the sun. His expressions that were normally full of energy was now struck with disbelief.

“I … that-“ Lost for words, Takao clasped a hand to his gaping mouth, a cerise blush rising to colour his cheeks.

Eventually, he sucked in a breath and faced Shintarou, face still red, eyes shimmering with a determined light.

“Thank you too … for accepting me the way I am. And for being my friend.”

“I hope you will model for me again.”

Takao paused, tilting his head to the side, reminiscent of a cat deep in thought.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re beautiful.”

In the darkening light, Takao pursed his petal-like lips which eventually gave way to the smile that was loved by Shintarou.

“You’re weird.”

The meaning of Takao’s existence was beyond what words were capable of expressing, a masterpiece left behind by great artists like Vincent van Gogh or Claude Monet. A beauty without comparison and beneath the delicately carved shell, was the pearl of the ocean, priceless and special. A treasure Shintarou would hold close with gentle, tender hands.  


End file.
